


all’s fair

by Hope



Category: 21 Jump Street
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-19
Updated: 2005-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 'christmas in saigon', s2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all’s fair

He knows that when she uses _Thomas_ instead of _Tom_ or the more maudlin _Tommy_ that it's something serious.

"What," he says in a hushed whisper once he's made sure the kitchen door is closed firmly behind them. He's in cop-mode all of a sudden, which is strange when combined with head-of-the-household-mode; he can hear Amy's giggle and Doug's exaggerated faux-serious voice, the clink of the coffee cups and the soft buzz and crackle of his mother's fifteen-year-old carol records; he's tuned into the level of force with which his mom sets the dirty dishes on the bench top, the degree of tension in her shoulders. Which is … very little. "Mom, _what_?"

She turns away from the sink again, to face him, and he edges forward a bit further, abruptly daunted by the complete mix of signals he's picking up here. She finally sighs in good-natured exasperation, gestures him the last few steps closer, grips his upper arms gently. She's smiling, a soft, secretive smile and she's looking at him like she can see right through him. Tom squirms.

"Why didn't you tell me about Douglas?"

Tom freezes. "Tell you what about Doug?" responding in kind, with a half-whisper.

His mom makes a vaguely scoffing noise, but otherwise continues as if he hasn't said anything. "How did it happen? How long did it last?" she moves a hand up to his shoulder, squeezes and gives it a little shake. "I can't believe you didn't _tell_ me!"

Tom blinks. The movement almost feels as if it's in slow-motion, breath sharp in through his nostrils, his whisper harsh but distant in his ears. "Mom, what are you talking about?" his hands clenched by his sides, inside slicked with cool sweat.

"Tommy," she rests her palm against his jaw. "I've seen the way he looks at you. Your mother may be getting old and senile but she's not _blind_, you know."

Tom's not quite sure what else to do except blink again, rapidly, as if the face in front of him -- smiling slightly self-deprecatingly but mostly sympathetically -- is an illusion. As opposed to the multitudes of expressions he's ran through in his head, over and over, since oh, about age fifteen. This one certainly wasn't amongst them. He swallows, hard, shrugs, breaks their gaze to look down. "It's over now."

"Well," she doesn't move her hand from his face. "I should hope so. Unless the three of you have some arrangement where--"

"_Mom,_" he hisses, and looks up in time to see her hide a grin.

They're both silent for a moment, Tom still trying to still the spinning in his head as his mind rapidly tries to catch up with the events of the past few minutes after years of somewhat despairing stagnation, and his mother probably pausing to concoct something else to give her son heart palpitations.

"That's a shame," she murmurs at last. "That it's over, I mean." Maybe if she stopped _looking_ at him he could recuperate enough to regain his in-control demeanor, but that doesn't seem to be happening any time soon. "He obviously adores you. And well… I've always been able to read _you_ loud and clear." Tom makes a half-hearted noise of dismissal, and her hands move to his shoulders, gripping firmly. "We're more alike than you might think, you know." Her gaze inexorable, leaning her head forward to peer directly into his eyes. "And I'm not made of glass."

He pulls away a little, out of her grasp, and rubs a hand over his face. "I know," he says, when the silence gets too long. "I know you're not." And things are _not meant to be happening like this_, something which in itself seems to have become a mantra of late.

"Tom. Why didn't you tell me?"

He gives a half-hearted laugh, it sounds like he's struggling to free what's pressing hard down on his chest. "Well it seems now like I didn't need to."

"That's not the point," she starts, and he half-turns away. She pauses a moment, reconsidering, continuing more lightly. "How did it end?"

Tom shrugs again, belatedly picking up the coffee pot from the hotplate, turning to the sink, though it feels like his feet are dragging through molasses. "He… Didn't think I could do something I wanted to do." It's a struggle to explain, even now. "Sabotaged me. Went behind my back."

It takes her a few moments to reply. "Maybe… maybe he just knows you better than you think."

Tom wisely withholds pouring the water into the percolator just yet. "What are you trying to say, Mom?" he's surprised at how even his tone is, considering. "Better than I know myself?"

"Maybe, yes." No pause before her reply this time, and that fierce, firm note at the end that sounds strange but so familiar coming from her mouth instead of his. She steps closer again. "All I'm saying is… Are things better since it ended?" She doesn't touch him again, doesn't make him face her as he stands there, death grip on the plastic handle of the coffee jug. "Are you happier now than you were then?"

There's a soft knock on the door and it almost makes the jagged thing stuck in Tom's chest slice up out through his throat , but his head still turns automatically to look over his shoulder. "Amy, sweetheart," his Mom strides over to grip her hands. Amy's expression of slight puzzlement is washed over with a subdued pleasure.

"Do you two need any help with the coffee?"

"No, no," Mrs Hanson dismisses the obligatory offer of help as Tom finally lifts the jug from the bench top and begins to pour. "The two of us are managing just fine."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/31987.html


End file.
